To Catch A Fox
by Crank-01
Summary: Dayna Fox has entered The Iron Fist Tournament, in hopes that she will be victorious. However, with the likes of Jin Kazama and Hwoarang on her heels, things begin to get...complicated? Hang onto your seats; it's going to be a bumpy ride!
1. Prologue

Prologue:

"You are not going, and that is final!"

My father's fist sliced through the air, eventually colliding with the dining room table, making it shake underneath the force.

I swallowed, unsure of how to approach his fury. He was never usually this furious with _me_; my older brother Steve, however, he was slightly more aggressive with...

But not me.

Not Dayna.

He was always gentle, kind, considerate. Aware of my feelings and generously coaxing them whenever possible.

I stared motionless at him, at his black hair greying at the sides, at his clenched jaw visible through the skin, at the thick veins protruding out of his forehead like someone had cellotaped them there as a ploy of good humour.

The shudder that ran through me was unlike anything else I had ever experienced; disgust. I was horrified to see him so angry – the rage inside of his distorted his handsome face, turning him ugly, beastly.

He was a savage tiger, preparing himself to pounce on me and rip my flesh into chewable strips.

I parted my lips to speak, but my tongue froze helplessly, clinging to the roof of my mouth in desperation.

Now, I was afraid.

"Dayna, you are not going to fight in some sick tournament. You could be killed! I absolutely, one hundred percent forbid you!" he roared, this time knocking the Chinese vase one of my nomad Aunts had sent him for Christmas cleanly onto the floor, where it smashed into irreparable pieces.

He really had to find a healthier way of dealing with his emotions; the way he was going we'd be out of cutlery by Easter...

"I am," I stood up from the chair I had been slumped in, standing tall against the rabid monster in front of me, "It isn't your choice. I am going to New York, and I am fighting in the Iron Fist tournament. And heck, I'm going to win,"

I smiled as I stammered through the last line; the sheer glory that would be sprinkled over me if I was victorious would be far too good to pass up. I could already see the riches; the _fortunes _winning would open the doors to!

"Dayna – "

"No." I pressed a hand lightly on his chest, and narrowed my eyebrows, "I am going. No more. No more of this nonsense. Now, are you driving me to the airport, or am I to catch a cab?"

Silence reigned for a few moments. I shifted uncomfortably, the air radiating a dismal misfortune, as though someone had just died.

Finally, after the quiet appeared to last for far too long, my father let out a sigh, and withdrew his car keys from his trouser pocket.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

The Iron Fist tournament had been commencing for over three hundred years, attracting impeccable fighters from all over the world to one particular destination. Romance occurred often, deaths almost always, and the winner would receive the board rights to one of Japan's highest ranking science zaibatsu's – The Mishima's.

Rumour had it that no-one had conquered the last round (which was spoken about as Hehachi Mishima himself duelling with the underdog) in over thirty years.

Suddenly, all the fussing and fighting to get to New York was meaningless; the only thing that matter now, was kicking some ass and having people scream your name in delight.

I pushed through the doors of the Tifa Meadows Hotel, located in downtown New York, near Chinatown.

The hotel was nothing fancy, yet not repulsive; it was rather spacious, with a pungent odour of stale tobacco and lavender drifting delicately through the air.

The lobby was cramped with people, all wearing different expressions, not unlike carnival masks: angry, happy, sad, anxious, determined.

I gulped, and elbowed my way to the front desk.

"Excuse me?" I tapped the concierge's – who was hurriedly pushing buttons on his computer, facing away from me – shoulder, and smiled kindly, "May I check in?"

The concierge whipped around, face placid from all the stress of so many lodgers, and glared at me with his beady little eyes.

"Wait a moment, for God's sake! Have you no manners!" he snapped nastily; I blinked in surprise, taken aback by his viciousness.

"Yo!"

A pale hand slapped down on his ebony desk, followed by a head full of pin straight blonde hair leaning in and latching onto his bright red tie:

"Back off, pal. She was just asking. Now work your magic and check us _both _in, or I'll gorge your eye out and send it to your family for dessert, okay?"

The concierge visibly swallowed, and nodded quickly in agreement, choosing to believe the blonde's threat. Heck, I believed it too, her voice was so calm and concise. She stood back, flipped her hair over her shoulders, and turned to face me.

She was so beautiful it was unreal; a perk heart-shaped face, sparkling blue eyes that seemingly laughed at you as you gawp at her excellence, and a slim, tall body that escalated beyond a woman's wildest dreams.

What was something so perfect doing at Tifa Meadows?

"Hey there," she winked, and placed her hands on her tiny hips, "I'm Emilie de Rocheford. But you can call me 'Lili' – most people do. Are you here for the Iron Fist?"

I nodded, and told her my name: Dayna Fox.

She raised an eyebrow, inquisitively.

"Aren't you a little young for face-to-face combat?" she asked, suspiciously, crinkling her face up in thought.

I snorted.

"Aren't you a little old to be calling people young?" I challenged.

She laughed, and slapped me on the back, almost knocking me into a faceplant.

"I like you, Dayna Fox. Hopefully we're on the same team this year!"

The concierge cleared his throat, and we both turned to look at him, game faces on.

"Here you are, Miss Rocheford and Miss Fox," he handed us both separate room keys, and directed us over to the elevators.

We had to fight our way through the angry crowd, who were furious that they were still waiting to be accommodated. I would have been crushed helplessly had Lili not grabbed me by the elbow and shoved me along. She was incredibly muscular for someone so dainty!

Pressing the 'up' elevator button, she turned once more to face me, surveying carefully one of her perspective opponents.  
"I have to say, Dayna, you don't look like much. They will eat you alive," she whistled sympathetically, which made me shudder.

Her whistle sliced right through my body, as though just that alone could tear me to pieces. I had never in my life felt so small, so out of place, than standing in the lobby of Tifa Meadows, surrounded by amazing fighters all wanting the same shot as I.

What the hell was I doing here?

"Hey," Lili prodded me in the chest, and gave me a lop-sided smile.

She must have seen my defeated expression, for she looped her arm in mine, and pressed her chin onto the top of my head.

"Never mind – you probably have the biggest balls going, right?" she teased, playfully pushing me into the elevator as the doors sharply clicked open.

I considered this for a moment: all my life, I loved to fight. And it wasn't just kids my size or age – it was older people, stronger people, people who would grind my bones to make their bread.

And yet...I hadn't backed down. I hadn't given up. I was cut from the fighter's cloth, my brother used to say, I was meant to make others cry out in pain.

Suddenly, his words melted into the air, and I wondered for a moment if he had been mistaken.

Was I _really _cut from that cloth, like all of these standing before me, in a cluster of rage and excitement?

I wasn't certain.

"You said something earlier," I said as the elevator ascended to the third floor, "About teams?"

Lili nodded, adjusting the red bow flapping limply in the middle of her white dress.

"Well...?" I prompted, nudging her in the ribs gently.

"Oh," she stood up straight, tearing herself away from her reflection in the elevator mirror, "Well, yeah. Two teams every year; the blue and the red. It's sort of a competition outside the just individuals – everyone wants their team to win,"

"And what do you get if you're in the winning team?" I asked.

The elevator doors broke open again, and both Lili and I stepped out.

"Fifteen thousand dollars," she grinned, "Each."

I stood motionless at the foot of the elevator. My mouth dropped in awe. _Fifteen thousand dollars? Each? _It was absurd! An utterly ridiculous sum! How could anyone give away so much?

Then again, people were willing to pay an awful lot of money just to get a few minutes of entertainment; that part was clear to me.

Lili laughed at my stunned face, and lifted a pair of thin white gloves out of the top of her boots. She slipped one on, and waited patiently for me to collect myself.

"Damn," was all I could manage, as I trundled down the third floor corridor, still dumbstruck and bewildered.

I had never heard of the 'teams' policy before – my brother had never mentioned it when he spoke of his own doings in the tournament. I knew that the overall winner received something great – it hadn't occurred to me that an entire team might too!

"Well, this is me," Lili stopped in front of a door that read "12", "I'll see you tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"For the welcome dinner. Every Iron Fist tournament has one before the first rounds begin. How badly informed have you been!"

I shrugged.

"Tonight?" Lili repeated, as though I needed instant reminding of what she had just said.

I suddenly felt extremely stupid, and yet again on completely the wrong road to everyone else. Nethertheless, I muttered my agreement, and watched her door close loudly behind her pale, thin legs.

I sighed, twisting my own room key in my hand as I glided down the hall, searching for room '25'. I came to a set of double doors, both daring me to push them open and find my room, to give me some sort of feel of accomplishment.

Allowing all my humiliation and ignorance to flood my veins, I took a running leap at the doors, and with a loud "CRACK", smashed through them using the sole of my foot.

"OUCH!"

I stopped in my tracks.

The double doors were swinging wildly back and forth on their hinges now because of my flying kick; but, if I looked closely enough, I could see the figure of a person cradling their forehead, blood seeping through their fingers not unlike a waterfall.

"Oh my God!" I said, horrified.

Only me.

ONLY ME.

Only I could unleash ten hours of anger, sorrow and embarrassment on a poor, unsuspecting citizen without even knowing it.

I dropped my holdall instantly, and dashed over to the injured creature. I crouched down and took their hand in mine.

It was only then that I saw who it was.

And I will tell you now, I dropped that damn hand like it was a molten rock.

"You!" I said accusingly, standing bolt upright and glaring at the wounded deceiver.

Hwoarang.

What was _he _doing here?

"Nice to see you too, Fox," he grinned through thick lines of blood, getting to his feet and holding out his clean hand for me to shake.

I wrinkled my nose up in distaste at his kind gesture, refusing his acquaintance. How could I? How could I be civil with this..._ogre_.

Although he did look handsome, as always; flame red hair shooting back in lascivious soft spikes, tanned skin so smooth and inviting, muscles bulging, ego blazing...everything any ordinary girl would murder for.

Except me.

"Come on, Fox, when are you going to let that go? It happened two years ago!"

I made an appalled noise at his making light of the situation: that bastard had slept with my cousin and then dumped her the next day. Not just that, but he had videoed her begging for him back, and posted it all over YouTube. She had been mortified for months, but is now residing happily in Iowa, with a nice boyfriend named Carl. Regardless, I was not about to let this prick get away.

I swore if I ever saw him again, I would make him suffer.

And now, maybe I would.

If he were my opponent in the first round, I could make him squeal like a pig.

"Hey, Fox?" he waved a hand in front of my face, shaking me out of my fantasy, "Are you there?"

"Yes I am!" I said, snatching his arm and twisting it into a pretzel.

"Ouch. Now, now, Fox, not too hard. I'm fragile," he teased, making no attempts to counter my hold.

"Urgh, you make me sick!" I yelled, pushing him hard in his chest and flouncing off, in the opposite direction.

"Love you too, Fox. Oh, and by the way; nice ass," he snickered, making sloppy licking noises as I pushed through another set of double doors, collecting my bags along the way, only to find myself in another corridor.

Why was life never simple for me? Why did Hwoarang have to be here? He would ruin everything. Even if I won, he was sure to knock a great amount off of the glory just by being there, having his presence around my victory. He was a disease, infecting everyone with his lame pick-up lines and delicious pectorals.

How I hated him!

Finally, my eyes fell on room twenty-five, and I angrily tried to slot my key into the pocket.

No dice.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I pressed harder, four or five times, and yet still it wouldn't register that I was trying to get inside my room, trying to settle into some peace and quiet before the evening dinner.

"Come on! Don't do this to me!" I wailed, holding the key in the air and waving it to and fro madly, as though something in the air would become conjured up and magically command my key to relent and do its job.

But nothing like that happened at all.

In fact, something quite the opposite happened.

A soft, long hand fell onto my key, and took it gentle from between my fingertips.

I turned around, curiously, to find myself face to face with a God.

No, seriously.

He wasn't as tall as Hwoarang, but he had these devilish cheekbones that practically oozed adoration; he was obscenely muscular, with a beautiful mane of charcoal black hair spiked backwards, dark bangs hiding some of his forehead. His eyes were astonishing – so haunted, so brooding, so painfully honest it hurt my own lying heart. He stood in only a pair of grey Nike tracksuit bottoms, and a thin white ribbed vest, so I could see his body composition excellently; he was, to be short, _yummy_...

...and holding my room key.

"Can I help you with something?" I said, trying to sound menacing but coming out sweeter than a singing choir boy.

I sighed inwardly, and he smiled, dryly, and slotted the key in the door for me. With a deep throaty buzz, the door opened with a clang, revealing a small, but neat room with a double bed and a large wooden rocking chair.

I flushed puce at my idiocy – I couldn't even open a door right!

"Thank you," I said, kicking my bags over the doorway and staring at his perfectly carved face.

"You're welcome," he said briefly, before continuing down the hallway to his room.

Was everyone even remotely hot on this floor?

And what did that make me?

I gave myself a once over in the bathroom mirror, and quirked an eyebrow.

"You," I said pointedly at myself, "Have no business being on this floor. Because you _definitely _are not in his league."

How very, very, very wrong I was!


End file.
